


Real Real Sweet Part 3

by couchbarnacle



Series: Pave the Way Series [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitter!Sherlock, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John's actually a teenager now..., Kid!Fic, Kid!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couchbarnacle/pseuds/couchbarnacle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holiday with Holmes isn't what anyone would define as traditional...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Real Sweet Part 3

**Author's Note:**

> I know! It's been forever since I updated and I feel like a terrible person because of it! I'll blame it on moving and weddings and my job. Also, I apologize profusely for not answering messages. I'm an awful person. Sigh*
> 
> So, this one is pretty much just fluff. I hope you enjoy it!

“Watson! With me.”

“Yes, sir?” John panted. They’d just finished up rugby practice and he was desperate for a shower but his coach had been on his arse all bloody practice and now wanted to verbally eviscerate him before tea.

“Do you want to explain to me what that was out there today?” his coach said gruffly.

“What was what, sir?” John asked evenly.

“That display out there,” his coach declared, “Were you even here today?”

“Sorry, sir,” John sighed heavily.

“I don’t need any apology,” his coach continued, “I need to know what happened out there.”

“I don’t…I’m not…” John stuttered, “I don’t know.”

“John,” his coach said firmly, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“It’s nothing, sir,” John bit out, “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure that wasn’t my question,” his coached hounded him, “You’ve been out of sorts for days. We’re here to support you. Now, spill.”

“I talked to Mum a few days ago,” John said quietly, staring at the ground and fighting against the catch in his throat, “My sister was...well, she got into some trouble. Drinking and driving.”

“Oh,” his coach nodded, “Is she alright?”

John flushed but answered quietly, “She’s okay. Ran into a telephone pole and got a concussion but she’s in a lot of trouble.”

“And you’re having trouble processing that?”

“I guess,” John said keeping his gaze trained on the dirt of the field, “But she doesn’t want me to come home for the holiday. Apparently, Harry’s in pretty rough shape. Mum wants to keep me away from that. I guess I’m stuck here for the holiday.”

“Is there nowhere else you could go?” Coach asked quietly, “No other family? Friends?”

00000000000000000

**Hey. JW**

**Where would you rather spend Christmas: Paris or Florence? SH**

**Mum told you already, huh? JW**

**Our mothers do communicate on an almost daily basis. SH**

**Did she put you up to this? Because I can spend the holiday at school. You should be able to go home for Christmas even if I can’t. JW**

**Nonsense. I wouldn’t step foot in my mother’s house even if a pack of wolves were nipping at my heels and you shouldn’t spend the holiday alone. Now pick a destination. SH**

**Are you sure? JW**

**Repetition bores me. SH**

**Git. Why don’t we just stay in London? JW**

**If that’s what you’d prefer. SH**

**Yeah, let’s just plan on that. JW**

**Alright. You’re break starts on the 18 th, correct? SH**

**Yeah, I’ll take the train in. Thanks, Sherlock. JW**

**Don’t mention it. And don’t forget your taser. SH**

00000000000000000

“This place is rather…rustic, isn’t it?” John asked, looking around the worn living space with a slight grin on his features.

“It serves its purpose,” Sherlock shrugged, “And it’s incredibly affordable for London.”

“So, it’s just you then?” John asked, taking in the faded couch and miniscule telly.

“One bedroom,” Sherlock answered, checking his website obsessively for the third time since they walked in, “Business will pick up and then I’ll be able to afford nicer.”

“How is that whole Consulting gig going?” John asked, glancing wearily at some of the pots boiling on the stovetop.

“It’s adequate,” Sherlock shrugged, “I find the majority of my clients by combing through the news websites but my own site is growing slowly in popularity. I’m tentatively optimistic about this venture.”

“That’s exciting,” John answered, collapsing onto the shoddy sofa with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Sherlock answered, hefting a large duffel bag over his shoulder, “We’ve a few appointments this afternoon that are unavoidable.”

“Oh, yeah?” John asked, “What are we doing?”

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“I’m not saying I’m not having a good time,” John said evenly, holding the infant gently against his chest and rocking her slowly, “But this seems a little intrusive.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock answered, before turning back to Lestrade,” Now, do you have the photos from the coffee house or not?”

“It’s my bloody day off,” Lestrade, clad in his jimjams and a rather threadbare dressing gown, growled, “The day off, may I reiterate, that I’m able to spend with my daughter for what feels like the first time in months and you want to talk to me about work?”

“It will take a matter of minutes,” Sherlock countered, “If you would stop whinging.”

Lestrade began hitting his head loudly on the doorjam before letting out a pained sigh and turning toward John, “Do you mind watching her for ten minutes or so? The wife is at her sister’s for the week and I can’t show you the photos.”

“That’s fine,” John shrugged, feeling his heart warm as the pudgy fingers grasped at his fringe and the little girl let out a happy giggle.

“Right,” Lestrade said with a relieved sigh, “Thanks. Alright, you maniac, let’s go.”

John settled gently on the sofa before holding onto her waist carefully and allowing her to bounce on her chunky baby legs. She was babbling gleefully at him and he couldn’t help but grin in return. He hadn’t spent much time with babies in his life which explained why he was so shocked by how much she looked like her father. He’d been under the impression that most babies just looked generically similar. Slightly wrinkly, always pudgy, round, and crying little bundles of body fluids. But Annabelle Lestrade’s big, dark brown eyes and slightly crooked grin were so similar to the Detective Sergeant it was fascinating.

“Alright, John,” Sherlock said, “Time to go. Put the baby down before your hormone-addled body convinces your brain that it would be a fantastic idea to create little John Watsons.”

“You’re such a git,” John growled, but it was softened by the following chuckle, “See ya, Greg.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg sighed taking Annabelle back, “Not too soon, I hope.”

They exited the flat quickly and John followed as Sherlock led them down into the Underground. They exited in a rather sketchy part of the warehouse district and John checked to make sure that his taser was tucked securely into the back of his trousers. He trailed after the taller man and into a rather dilapidated building near the river.

“Sherlock,” John called out softly, “What in the bloody hell are we doing?”

“You can put away your taser,” Sherlock answered, “I called ahead. They’re expecting us.”

John broke away from the taller man to stand and gape at the open space of the warehouse floor. Every available floor space was packed with weightlifting equipment, boxing rings, mats, and blokes built like freight trains.

“Are they going to use me as a punching bag?” John asked nervously, “Because I’m pretty sure most of these guys could snap me in half with their little finger.”

“Probably,” Sherlock smirked, “You’re rather compact.”

“Wanker,” John said, punching Sherlock lightly in the shoulder.

“We’re in ring five,” Sherlock answered, “Let’s get changed.”

The duffel bag contained two pairs of gym clothing, a couple of bottles of water, and two sets of headgear.

“Who are we fighting exactly?” John asked.

“Each other,” Sherlock said leading the way back onto the gym floor.

“You want me to fight you?” John said, unable to hide his grin.

“You find that funny, do you?” Sherlock said evenly.

“Well, no offense,” John answered, “But you’re a bit gangly and I’ve been playing rugby for years, old man.”

“Really?” Shelrock asked.

“I just don’t want to hurt you too badly,” John said smugly.

“Oh, please take it easy on me, Watson,” Sherlock answered, “I’m obviously inferior compared to your youthful strength.”

000000000000000

SLAM

“Oww,” John grumbled, rolling around on the mat with a pained groan.

“What is that now?” Sherlock asked, “Twenty-four pins for me to your three?”

John grumbled under his breath and slowly pulled himself back up to standing, “You’re a terrible person.”

Sherlock just chuckled gleefully and dropped back into a bartistu fighting stance, “You know, you can stop taking it easy on me if you like.”

“Nobody appreciates that attitude,” John said leaning heavily on one of the posts, “You just sound like a smug bastard.”

“Are you ready to admit that my technique is superior to yours?” Sherlock asked.

“I think the evidence is overwhelming in your favor,” John sighed, rubbing at his lower back.

“Obviously,” Sherlock answered, “Now, are you ready to let go of that youthful swagger and submit to my training?”

John watched him for several seconds in confusion before bursting out a tired laugh, “Has this entire afternoon been about attempting to teach me self-defense moves?”

“You’re rather slow today, John,” Sherlock answered back, “I may have knocked the last few intelligent brain cells right out of your head.”

“Ha bloody ha,” John answered, “Alright, unlike someone in this ring; no one has ever accused me of being an arrogant prick. Train me up, oh wise one.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock answered, “We’ll start with your stance…”

00000000000000000

John was collapsed on the grimy couch with several ice packs saran wrapped to his knees, back and upper arms as he attempted to maneuver chopsticks with his exhausted body. He let out a pained grunt as he shifted to ease the ache in his muscles.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked as he flitted back and forth through the flat checking emails, moving furniture, stopping to eat some Chinese food, work on an experiment, etc.

“How are you _not_ completely worn out?” John whinged. 

“That isn’t really the interesting query, is it?” Sherlock countered, “The fascinating question is why _are_ you?”

“You’re not funny,” John said firmly.

“Then it’s probably advantageous that I’m not pursuing a career in comedy,” Sherlock continued blasé as he moved quickly throughout his small flat.

“So, we spent today ensuring that I would be unable to move about pain-free for the remainder of the holiday,” John began, “I shudder to think what I’ll be objected to the rest of the week.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks halfway to the kitchen carrying several mold spore petri dishes and glanced hesitantly at his young friend, “Are you…I mean, are you not having a good time?”

“Don’t be daft,” John said happily, “There’s no place I would rather be.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock whispered, “That’s…very good.”

“I am curious about the rest of the week though,” John answered.

“Well, tomorrow, if you’re amenable, we’re going to travel to the top five tourist destinations in London to compare the rates of pickpockets from citizens of varying countries,” Sherlock said tentatively.

“Will there be tea?” John asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock answered, “It will be used as a prop so that we can blend into the population.”

“Then I’d be delighted,” John answered with a grin.

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“Uh,” John interrupted Sherlock as he was typing frantically at his keyboard, “You busy?”

“Not especially,” Sherlock sighed sounding frustrated, “Just trying to disabuse some incredibly incompetent readers of my blog of their insipid opinions.”

“That sounds entertaining,” John answered.

“It is rather satisfying,” Sherlock muttered, “Until I remember that they are literally only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the general public’s stupidity.”

“Your life is so hard,” John replied somberly.

“That’s a tragically accurate statement,” Sherlock sighed, “What did you need?”

“Oh, well,” John coughed awkwardly before holding out a package wrapped in newspaper, “I thought I’d get you something for letting me hang here for the week.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sherlock said offhand but he’d already grabbed for the parcel and started observing the measurements, weight, etc.

“I wanted to,” John answered, “I hope you like it.”

Sherlock shook it lightly and then sniffed the package before grinning largely and ripping into the paper. He pulled out the dark red fabric and let the soft material run through his fingers.

“I figured you’d need a new one after that Thames fiasco,” John explained, “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredibly appropriate,” Sherlock smiled, “A good scarf is invaluable. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John answered “One of the girls I go to class with sells some of her knitting projects and I thought you might like it.”

“I do like it,” Sherlock said, “We should try it out, don’t you think?”

“What did you have in mind?” John asked.

“I know the perfect Italian place within walking distance,” Sherlock answered, “Since it’s your last night in London, it’ll be my treat.”

“Great,” John said, “I’ll just grab my jacket.”

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“Well,” John said standing on the train platform, “Thanks again.”

“No need to thank me,” Sherlock waved away the gratitude, “It’s also a pleasure to have you around.”

“Good,” John said, feeling a strange tugging in his chest and shook it off lightly, “See you soon then?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered, “Have a safe trip.”

“I will,” John answered, “Bye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock smiled.


End file.
